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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28853427">What They Thought</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BizarreAmy/pseuds/BizarreAmy'>BizarreAmy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Death, Drabble Collection, Gen, Introspection</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-01-19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-18 08:34:38</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,280</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28853427</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BizarreAmy/pseuds/BizarreAmy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A place to compile my drabbles.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Fiery Chasm</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>More dialogue centric than I like but it's technically Maedhros talking to himself.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“If I die, will I see you in the Halls?” Maedhros asked, clutching the Silmaril tighter in his hand.</p><p>The apparition smiled, a small quirk of his ghostly mouth. “You can see me now. So why die?”</p><p>“Because you’re not real,” he answered, convinced in his belief that the translucent figure he saw before him was not Fingon. He never was.</p><p>“Nothing is. Not unless you believe-”</p><p>“-Believe in it,” he murmured along. This alone was enough to prove that he was merely talking to a figment of his imagination. Fëanor used to say that very thing. And his mind knew it well. “You’re not real.”</p><p>“Am I to understand you don’t believe me then? That hurts, Maitimo.”</p><p>“No, you’re in my mind and I do not believe it. You’re not Findekáno, whom I trust with my entire being.”</p><p>The figure shook his head, a gesture so reminiscent of Fingon that his breath caught and the agony of his burning hand was forgotten for a moment. “Then trust your heart,” Not-Fingon said.</p><p>Maedhros couldn’t help but laugh through the tears on his face then, “It says to follow you.”</p><p>“Why do it now when you couldn’t do it before? When it mattered the most?” Not-Fingon had a cruel glint in his eyes - an expression so odd on his face that Maedhros berated his mind for conjuring it. Fingon never would have borne such malicious glee nor uttered such harsh words. This wasn’t him.</p><p>“You always said it was never too late to be what you should have been,” he replied, staring down into the fissure not a metre away from his feet.</p><p>“And ‘dead’ is what you should have been?”</p><p>“Yes,” he said. “A long time ago.”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>And he jumped.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Call of the Wind</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Théodwyn's death.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Grief. For Théodwyn, it was a familiar face. From her father and the grandmother she loved above all, to the childhood friend she’d lost to sickness - grief had taken many forms. But for all its familiarity, when it knocked on her door now, there was no strength left in Théodwyn to weather it. How could she? For this time, grief had not sent a letter of its impending visit beforehand. There was no old age or sickness to herald its arrival. It had come unannounced and unwelcome, and Théodwyn had been unprepared for the upheaval it would cause in her life.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Death had been swift for Éomund, they said. He did not suffer, by Bema’s grace. But Théodwyn selfishly thought that at least then she would have known to ready herself for his departure from the living world. Had he lain on his deathbed for days, she could have survived somehow. But just as Éomund had taken an arrow and fallen off his horse, so had Théodwyn’s heart. And no matter if the people around rushed to help, it had been too late. Éomund was dead and Théodwyn’s will to live had died with him.</p>
<p>It wasn’t easy to witness, she knew. For her children and all her household, and even her brother in his Golden Hall, it must have been agony to see her wither away in front of their eyes. To see the light in her eyes dim, as if the stars which decorated them had faded away to make way for the dawn. A dawn which will never come. To hear her laughter be silenced, leaving behind only the deep grooves it’d carved on her face. Grooves which are flooded with her tears now.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” Théodwyn whispered, as she sat gazing into the distance on the terrace in Aldburg. The shirt she had been mending was long forgotten in her lap. It had been Éomund’s. And he might have taken it with him on that fateful orc raid. Might have even died in it, had it not been for her forgetting to mend it on time. Éomund never did like anyone else touching his things except her. And when her stitches came out crooked on occasion, he would laugh and say it was a reminder for him - that he could falter in his footing but always had to get the job done. Just like his beloved’s sewing.</p>
<p>“I’m sorry,” she repeated, but to whom she apologized, Théodwyn knew not. Was it to him? Or to her loved ones still left alive? Or was it to the sparrow that sat on the balustrade, waiting for the birdseed which Théodwyn would have brought out any other time, as usual. But not today. Not anymore.</p>
<p>A sudden gust of wind threw her mantle off her shoulders, but strangely Théodwyn did not feel the cold. Not really. Perhaps it was the heaviness that had settled in her soul, but all she could feel was a bone-deep weariness. And Even that weariness was overwhelming for her frail body.</p>
<p>She was just so tired.</p>
<p>It was afternoon now, and maybe, it wasn’t so late to take the rest her handmaiden had suggested before Théodwyn had insisted on sitting out in the light to finish the mending she should have done long ago. Maybe she could rest her eyes for a bit. Do the mending later, pick up where she had left off. Just for an hour or two. She would see better then. Her hands would shake less after. And perhaps, she might even feel a bit more. It’ll be alright.</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Lady Théodwyn would later be found by her handmaiden, serene in death, the wind blowing her golden hair around like a banner. Her hand would be clutching her husband’s shirt, the needle still threaded through, stuck inside the stitch it never completed. The sparrow would be long gone, the last being to see her alive. It would never return to that terrace again.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Poetic Affections</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>Fëanor and Fingolfin are reminded of happier times.</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Atar!” Curufin called, stomping across the deck under a starless sky to stand beside him. “Tell Kanafinwë that poetry solves nothing.”</p><p>And Fëanor was suddenly struck with a long-cherished memory, though rusted with time. It was of an elfling sitting dejectedly on a desk before him. A mirror image of their father in the making. Liquid grey eyes had looked up at him beseechingly and Ñolofinwë had said in a small voice, “Poetry solves nothing. Why must I learn to dissect it?” And Fëanor had huffed a laugh, reached out to fondly chuck the back of his brother’s head and Ñolo’s answering smile - small and hesitant - had been enough to excuse the show of affection.</p><p>xxx</p><p>“What are you doing, uncle?” Maedhros’ voice echoed around him as Fingolfin looked into the Palantir. “Impulsiveness is never the answer.”</p><p>The exasperated tone of his eldest nephew reminded him of similar words spoken by his own brother once. When their memories were worth hoarding like a treasure invaluable. He’d been an elfling then. Struggling to learn Quenya and all its nuances that Fëanor was willing and patient enough to teach him. But Fingolfin had never really understood the beauty that his brother had seen in words. They were just a tool for communication, were they not? So in a fit, he had torn the parchment he had been writing on, frustrated with his lack of progress with the written language. And Fëanor had sighed, patted his head a touch condescendingly and said, “Impulsiveness will never be the answer, Ñolofinwë. Learn that first.”</p><p>And oh, the hypocrisy of that fool. Fingolfin wished he was alive so that he could wring his neck himself. But alas, Fëanor would only live on in his memories now. Both the bitter and the sweet. Until he joined him in the Halls. Perhaps then he could tell his brother, “I finally wrote a song worthy of your praise.” Maybe. Just maybe, Fëanor would be proud at last.</p>
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